


Haunted

by Ette



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, So much angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-02 21:27:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12734622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ette/pseuds/Ette
Summary: “What -” he stammers. “Pardon me, but what the hell are you doing in my house?”The woman intruding is grinning ear to ear, which unnerves him all the more. There is something about her, she seems to either have a pallor or a glow, that’s unsettling.“Oh boy, are you in for a surprise."





	Haunted

Solas assures his relator he doesn’t need to see the house in person. The pictures are honest, he’s moved around enough to tell, and in any case he doesn’t plan to stay for long. He’ll finish up his novel, and then he will leave.

Still, when the car pulls into the driveway of his new home he realizes he expected it to be bigger. He’s glad for it - it’s just him living in there, after all, the rooms besides the kitchen, bedroom, and office will only gather dust. He has two bags, one for clothes, one for possessions, and he informs the driver he can handle them himself. He offers the man a quiet thanks before shutting the door, and gravel crunches while the black sedan pulls out of the driveway. Once the hum of the engine vanishes, there’s no noise besides birds chirping and the whisper of leaves in the wind. 

Like all the places he’d moved to, he’d had the house furnished ahead of time. The decorators had done well by his wish for simple pieces and muted colors, he thinks while he places his bags on the sofa. The house, beautiful despite two hundred years of wear, shines all the more for it. Over the years, renovations had been done to keep the place together, but not so many so that the rooms lost their history. In another place, he wouldn’t dream of doing anything before unpacking. Here he indulges to explore. 

He takes his time moving through the first floor, acquainting himself with his new home. Despite how polished the place looks, the floorboards above his head creak and groan. He’s just considering if it’d be worth it to look into fixing when he hears a thump overhead, so loud he starts. The stairs are by the entryway and he backtracks quickly, taking the steps two by two until he’s reached the second level. Maybe it’s nothing, just a book knocked off a shelf, but he can’t shake a feeling of unease.

His search is fast and unfruitful. There are two bedrooms, one bathroom, but all he finds is more tasteful furniture and good lighting. He’s hoping that nothing fell on the roof - nothing damaging, at least - as he turns the corner of the hall and notices a crack in the ceiling. Cautiously, he makes his way to it, tugs a string hanging down. He’d all but forgotten about the attic, never expecting to have enough possessions to need it. Now, unfolding the ladder, he almost doesn’t want to go up. He tells himself he’s being foolish, that simply poking his head in will sooth his nerves, and pulls himself upwards.

The room is surprisingly bright, large windows letting in the sun, and he’s relieved to see the floors are bare (if dusty). Content, he’s almost stepping back down when he hears another, louder creak from behind him. Never the type to leave things unfinished, Solas climbs all the way up, stands and, after brushing off his pants, turns around. For the first time in his memory, he’s startled enough to shout.

“What -” he stammers. “Pardon me, but what the hell are you doing in my house?”

The woman intruding, on the other hand, is grinning ear to ear, which unnerves him all the more. There is something about her, she seems to either have a pallor or a glow, that’s unsettling.

“Oh boy, are you in for a surprise,” she responds. He’s at a loss for words, but luckily she continues. “You know this house is ancient, right? Over two hundred years old. Really, you’re just asking for trouble. I mean, most people know enough to hire an inspector.”

Realization spreads through him, cold as ice water. “Maker, you’ve got to be joking. There are laws that protect against this kind of thing, aren’t there?”

“Sure thing. But there’s a funny catch - if a relator doesn’t know a house is haunted, they technically can’t list the place as such. Most realtors conveniently forget to ask.” With that, the ghost girl floats across the trapdoor, so she’s standing in front of Solas. “I’m Zena Lavellan, resident ghost. I’d shake your hand, but,” sheepishly, she bats her hand out, so it moves right through his arm. A shiver wracks through his whole body.

“Right. Well,” Solas takes a step back, bringing a hand to his forehead. He’s got a headache coming, he’s sure. “Forgive me if I’m rude, this has never happened to me before, and well - I’m awfully sorry, but I did move up here for some peace and quiet.” He watches carefully for a reaction, heart pounding in his throat. He’s never met a ghost before but - well, he’s heard horror stories. To his relief, her smile stays.

“Don’t worry, as far as spirit roommates go, you’ve hit the jackpot. I mean, the infrastructure's seen better days, so you’ll probably hear me moving around up here. I might borrow your radio or TV if you aren’t home, but otherwise I’ll try to keep it down. And I’ll stay up here if you have company - well, unless they do wanna see me. Some people are into that shit, you know, and it does get kind of lonely,” she falls quiet, grin dropping from her face, and for some reason Solas feels guilty for it. “I’m rambling, aren’t I? Sorry. The last guy was a major dick, and you haven’t even screamed yet. Can’t remember the last time that happened. If you could say anything, though, at this point I’d be really grateful.” 

“My apologies,” he says quickly. “This is just - well, it’s a lot to take in.”

Zena nods. “Don’t worry about it. You know what, you should just go downstairs, get settled, and try to forget I’m even here. Come back up once you’ve cleared your head. And take your time - I’m not going anywhere.”

Her joke hits him like a kick in the ribs, and it must show, because her smile turns into a wince. Solas excuses himself, climbs back down the ladder, goes and lies down on the couch. He doesn’t unpack until the next day.

 

xxxx

 

“Would you like to come down for some tea?”

Two days pass before Solas gathers his courage, makes a plan, and pokes his head back into the attic. Originally Zena had seems delighted to see him. But the smile falls from her face, and he hastily continues.

“I know you can’t drink tea, of course, but I believe the setting will normalize the situation. For me. And we probably have some things to discuss.”

“Right, well, if that’s what works for you,” she shrugs, and vanishes. He has to blink a few times, to be sure, but she is indeed gone. Climbing down, he supposes she doesn’t really need a ladder, and it would make most sense to just teleport herself to the ground floor. He’d do it himself, now that he’s thinking about it. So when his feet hit the ground and he turns to find himself face to ghostly face, he lets out a little, “Oh!”

“Sorry!” She darts backwards. “I thought it might be rude to just welcome myself downstairs. Didn’t consider I might startle you. I probably should’ve.”

“No matter, just,” he gestures towards the stairs, not quite having caught his breath. To Zena’s credit, she takes the normal route this time. Even if she is floating.

By this time, the kettle he’d put on the stove is trembling. He busies himself with taking it off and making a cup.

“Would you like me to pour you a mug, at least?” he asks, concentrating on the familiar warmth of steam and scent of tea leaves. “I don’t know if that does anything for you. I don’t know much about ghosts, really.”

“Well, the gesture’s sweet, but it’d be a waste of water,” she smiles. “I can’t touch anything unless I’m feeling some intense emotions. A little discomfort isn’t going to cut it.”

“Right… sorry,” Solas exhales. He’s trying to maintain a level head here, and she certainly isn’t making it easy. It’s bad enough that he got a house with a ghost attached - did he really have to get a ghost with a sense of humor? “As I said, I’m not so sure how to handle this.”

She looks at him for a long time, humor falling from her face, before she says, “Technically, you don’t really need to handle this. Plenty of people pretty much ignore me the whole time they’re here. Once you get started, it’s easy to pretend like I don’t exist. Ghost quirk,” she shrugs. “Probably isn’t in my best interest to tell you this stuff, but a quick search would get you the same information.”

Indeed, it already had. Solas had gotten on the Internet as soon as he’d climbed out of the attic, and that was the piece of advice he’d most frequently found. But something about this rubs him the wrong way; it’d be like having a roommate you didn’t speak with, only the roommate isn’t allowed to move out.

“This isn’t my forever home, anyways, so I doubt it’ll kill us to be civil.”

“Already planning on moving out?” she quirks an eyebrow. “Gosh, I wish I could say this was a record. Alas - not the case.”

He chuckles a little at this, and adds, “Staying was never the plan. I’m just -” he pauses but, what the hell, it won’t hurt to tell her, “I’m trying to finish my novel. I’ve got a case of writer’s block, and was hoping for a quiet place to finish things up.”

“Oh,” her eyes go wide. “In that case I’ll be quiet as - well, the grave would probably be a bad metaphor here,” she says, breaking into a grin, and Solas is surprised to find he has as well.

“A mouse might be more apt,” he finishes for her, and she surprises him again by laughing. With sunlight streaming into the kitchen, the situation would look mundane if only the light didn’t scatter and glint when it hit Zena’s form. Here, Solas is struck by two realizations. One, if she weren’t the human equivalent of a termite infestation, Zena would be someone he could imagine getting along very well with. And two, in spite of being entirely deceased, she is almost unfairly pretty.

 

xxxx

 

“Is this your book?”

Solas jumps to hear the voice right beside him - he hadn’t heard Zena come down or felt a shift in temperature in the room. “It is,” he responds, his voice tremoring from shortness of breath. The papers are spread all across his desk, and out of habit he retrieves them into a stack. “I thought you were upstairs.”

“I was, but I got bored,” she’s peering forwards, undeterred. “Could I read it?”

Usually, he doesn’t let people touch his works in progress. Hell, he doesn’t like watching people read his finished works. But for some reason - maybe because she’s dead, or maybe because he’s in such a rut - he spreads the papers and moves to the side.

“I’m in the middle right now, but have at it.” Her brow furrows while she’s reading, and the loss of levity on her face makes him nervous. “It’s about a fallen god. He tries to save his people once, but ends up doing more harm than good. So, centuries later, he’s trying to help them again.”

She offers a little, “Hmm,” without removing her gaze from the page. Solas turns his attentions back to his desk, busying himself with organizing the papers left. He only turns when he hears Zena speak. 

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she says, and his heart drops. “But it’s a bit… stilted. I mean, you’re obviously a great writer, but people don’t talk like this.”

His mouth tightens, but he tries to hide his annoyance. “People aren’t very well spoken,” his voice sounds tart, even to him. “No one will be able to get through a book with authentic dialog. It’d be all ‘uhm’s and ‘hm’s.”

“You’ve got a point. But all these characters sound the same. And it’s not like they don’t have personality - I get that he’s serious and stoic, she’s charming and brave - but they speak too similarly. They both speak like you.” Her lips tighten, and she steps away from the manuscript, her eyes wide and wary.

He doesn’t admit she’s got a point, but scrolling through the page and comparing lines side by side, Solas can’t deny the truth of it. “How might you change, say, this line?” He points to a piece of dialogue spoken by the female lead.

“Well,” she takes the papers back, scrutinizing them, “I’d use a hell of a lot more conjugations, for starters. And then I’d...”

She continues giving him advice, her confidence growing as Solas continues to sit and quietly nod. While he doesn’t necessarily agree with all her feedback, he finds himself appreciative - perhaps, in the future, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have someone edit his unfinished works.

With this in mind, he asks, “Would you be willing to provide a critique again?”

She looks up from the paper, eyes wide with surprise, before breaking into a grin. “Yeah,” she nods slowly. “Yeah, anytime.”

 

xxxx 

 

After two months in the house, he realizes the ghost girl is his best friend. To be fair he seldom leaves, content with the company of the dead. His vagrant lifestyle and closed manner always have made it difficult to be close to others, but Zena is always around. Despite her assurances that she’d be a quiet ghost, she hangs by his side for as long as he’ll let her. These days, he wouldn’t dream of telling her to go. Besides, the novel is coming along twice as fast as expected; Zena has a shrewd eye for flow.

“What’d you do before this?” he asks her, his manuscript lying on the desk. This morning, the chapter had been fresh, but now it’s sprinkled red with notes she’d given him.

“This - this as in death?” she raises an eyebrow. “Tactful, Solas.”

A chill runs through him when she says his name - a recent development, one he’s trying to ignore - and he says, “Sorry. But you get the gist.”

She’s lounging on her favorite couch, the deep green of its velvet a stark contrast to her translucent figure, and she casts her gaze to the ceiling for a long time. While she thinks, color slips into her form, painting her into the world of the living, however briefly. Solas has read about this online, and it’s happened on a few occasions since they’ve lived together. He doesn’t comment on it since the first time it happened. Mentioning it has rendered her very quickly back into a spectre.

“I didn’t do much, if you can believe it,” she doesn’t look back at him while she speaks, but keeps her eyes fixed up. “I didn’t die so long ago, but it was still a different era. I was born into a good family and married off as soon as it wasn’t creepy. I’m sure you get the picture.”

He tries to keep his expression blank, but it’s difficult; that isn’t how he pictured her at all. She seems so brimming with energy. He couldn’t imagine she’d be content as a housewife. “That surprises me.” He pauses, considering his choice of words. “You seem so well educated.” Finally seems a safe gamble.

“Well of course I was well educated,” she turns her head and offers a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m well read, I speak Orlesian, I can paint and - well, I can’t honestly say that I sew. But not for lack of trying. To answer your question though, I don’t ever recall identifying myself with what I did. I was hardly married a year before...” she breaks eye contact while trailing off, and for a moment she looks so solid Solas is sure he could touch her, if he tried. He doesn’t reach out though, as he’s painfully reminded that she is so, so young - and always will be. He tries to think of something to say, but his mind is all blank. Even if he had words, choked as he is, he doubts he’d be able to say a them.

“Do you know what happened?” he says, quietly, after a few minutes. He’d never asked before, had always felt the timing wrong, but he doubts there would ever be a good time to pop this question. Already, she’s becoming less opaque, the tension easing from her face.

“I thought you’d never ask,” she says, even laughs a little. “Hate to disappoint you, but I don’t actually know. It happens to some of us. But I’m guessing since I don’t remember, and since I’m still here, it wasn’t pretty.”  
Without thinking, he reaches his hand out to the arm of the couch, where she’s resting hers. It slips through, of course, and a familiar icy feeling shoots up his arm. She smiles at him, but she looks as though she’s about to cry. Before long she gets up, floats away. He doesn’t follow.

 

xxxx

 

“Tell me you’re not actually drinking that,” Zena says, floating into the seat next to him, her gaze on the tumbler he’s holding.

“This?” he holds up the glass of brown liquor in gesture. “It’s scotch. It’s been aged for forty years.”

“It’s disgusting, is what it is,” she wrinkles her nose. “Never could stand the stuff. Loved drinking when I could, granted, but never got the taste for the darkly colored man drinks.”

It’s an unusually cold summer night on the mountaintop, and the chill has crept into the house. Of course, that could be the spirit - but anymore Zena’s presence doesn’t cause him to shiver. “What’d you drink, in that case?” he says, setting the glass on a wooden table. 

“Wine,” she sighs, and her eyes roll back. “I loved wine. Tasted great, and made me happy. Or giggly, I guess. Not always happy.”

“No?” he raises an eyebrow. She’s seldom relayed to him dissatisfaction about anything besides being deceased.

“Well it didn’t exactly make me unhappy. I had an occasional habit of overindulgence,” she seems to chew her lip, though Solas is unsure if that’s possible. He watches her with an unwavering gaze, keeping his mouth firmly shut. He’s noticed that pauses in her thoughts, if left to linger, will often be elaborated on. “I wasn’t leading a life exactly filled with thrills. I think I used to drink sometimes to make things feel exciting.”

“You must hate being trapped here, if that was the case,” he says quietly. He tries not to think about how very long she’s been here, how long she will stay. All searches on the subject of exorcisms have been unfruitful. Without knowing how she died or why she may be here, odds of her moving on are slim.

“Oh it drives me crazy sometimes,” her voice is still light. Surprised, Solas looks at her and finds the smile, while small, still lingering on her lips. Her eyes trace the ceiling, and she continues, “I don’t always hate it though. At least, I don’t anymore.”

Without moving her head, her gaze shifts to the side, towards him. When their eyes meet it feels like he’s been struck by lightning. His hand jerks so hard scotch slops out of his glass, and she quickly looks away.

 

xxxx

 

There are bad nights too, of course, nights where stories of trembling lights, slamming doors all ring true. The house grows cold, like he’d forgotten to close a window, but a dread creeps in with the chill so terrible at times it’s paralyzing. Sometimes, Solas has found he can help. Sometimes he can’t - he tries not to think about those nights.

But it is these night’s he’s thinking of, staring up the attic ladder and at the darkness that lies beyond. The upper floor of his home echoes with the thump of wood, pounding on walls, a deep and harrowing echo. At first, annoyed, he’d yelled upstairs for Zena to keep it down. But the more he yelled, the louder things got, until he realized that whatever was happening above his head was most likely not intentional. It’s terrifying, to face the fact that sometimes Zena is not herself. But, always, she is just around the corner, trying to find a way back. She’s his friend, and there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for her.

“Zena?” he calls up the ladder, keeping his voice soft. “Do you hear me?” He is met only with more rattling in the walls of his house, a thunder of thumping all calm and unyielding. Reluctantly, he turns his flashlight on, points it into the void overhead and starts up.

He coos, “Zena,” less to draw her attention and more to comfort himself. She has never hurt him, she would never hurt him - this is more fact than misplaced faith, few reports of injury by spirit have ever proven true - but it is unnerving, darting the flashlight across the room, not knowing what he may see. When it catches a glint of white, he snaps his gaze away, can only bring himself to look after a deep, shaky breath.

The color is drawn from her body, the edges of her form tremble, she is curled tight in on herself and if he tries to look at her face it’s all a blur. He’s seen her like this before, but still he has to grip the edges of the ladder to keep his knees from giving. Slowly, he clambers all the way up.

“Hey, I’m here,” he murmurs, drawing close enough that she might feel his presence, but not so close as to frighten her. His heart stutters in his chest and he wishes, desperately, that he could be someone who could help her without fear - that he were brave and unselfish, like he knew she would be. But there is nothing he can do about his shortcomings. Instead he repeats the phrase, then variations of it, whispers sweet nothings until the thumping in the house rescinds, and the sound of her weeping fills the room, still like a storm - crackling, rumbling, shaking the walls - and he whispers, still, until all the strength of her wails is whisked away, leaving her sobbing softly into her palm. She is pale, but color drips back into her form, and once again he can see her face. Only now does he move close, kneels down beside her. He doesn’t stop talking until she looks halfway like herself.

Finally, she wipes her eyes, places her hands on the cold floor. There is no redness around her eyes, no puffy nose or flushed cheeks, no outward signs of tears aside from her look of misery.

“I don’t know why,” she says, her voice clear and desperate. “But I feel like I died today.”

Without any condolence to offer her - an apology sounds insincere, unsympathetic - he continues to sit, hands wringing. “Can I tell you a story?” he offers, and she laughs, airy and sad all at once.

 

“Yes, please.”

So he tells her a story about a time long ago, about a spirit world filled with demons and ghosts, and about a man who moves through them not as a tourist, but a friend. The tale winds long into the night, far past the ending that he knows, until the chill is only due to the poor ventilation. He watches her, watching him, the story growing before the both of them, and his eyes drift closed every once and awhile but the last thing he wants is to sleep.

 

xxxx

 

“How does it end?”

He looks up from his work. It’s just as well, he’s been at it for hours now, and a haze hangs over his head. “How does what end?” he asks, mind foggy.

“The story. I mean, surely you’ve got an ending in mind,” she is not so close, hanging on the edge of the room. It’s been like this for a week now, conversation undiminished, but she’s given up her place on his couch. He attributes the change to the standstill in his work; in the past month, he’s hardly made any progress. If he were in her shoes, he’d feel awkward, too.

“Oh, you know,” he shrugs. “The plan works, he saves the day, he lives happily ever after with his lady love.”

Something about this answer rubs her the wrong way, he can tell by the way her mouth draws into a thin, pressed line. “Why, do you think there’s something wrong with that?”

“I think there’s a lot wrong with it,” she replies, her eyes fixed somewhere past him. “Might be why you’re having so much trouble. I mean, it doesn’t really make sense, does it?”

“A happy ending doesn’t make sense?”

“Well, not exactly,” she draws the words out, takes long pauses between each phrase. “I don’t think you can end the story without the plan working, in some way, it’d be too doom and gloom. But afterwards, once he’s saved the day, why wouldn’t he stick around?”

His brow furrows. “Because he’s in love, of course. He doesn’t want to leave.”

“Doesn’t want to, maybe, but I don’t think it’d be characteristic of him to stay.” She takes a deep breath and, when he doesn’t interrupt, continues, words rolling of her tongue faster and faster. “All his meddling in the human world has turned out more bad than good, after all, I think he knows it’s not the place for him. As for the girl, I mean either he finds some way to make her a god, or she dies. He’s too pragmatic, too critical, not nearly self indulgent enough - I mean, he’s your character, so you know him much better than I do - but, in the end, I think he has to leave.”

Solas is too absorbed with her answer, turning the thought over, to immediately reply. Before he’s formulated a thought Zena seemingly loses interest, and drifts out of the room. 

 

xxxx

 

Solas paces through the kitchen, wringing his hands, because in all of his research of ghostly meltdowns he hasn’t come across a case where the house is still, lights don’t flicker, doors don’t slam, and still there is sobbing in the attic. He can’t possibly divine what has upset her so, and he’s spiraled headfirst down a path of neuroticisms: Should he console her? Can he console her? His mind races, he’s paralyzed even while he can’t stop from moving, and finally he turns on his heels to race upstairs before he ruins himself thinking. While he moves closer the sound subsides - he wonders if her anguish is fading, or if she just hears him closing in.

He reaches the top of the ladder, sticks his fist through the opening and raps the wooden floor. There’s a sniff, and Zena calls, “You don’t have to knock. It’s your house.”

Still, he hesitates. “It was your house first,” he answers. At this she laughs, high-pitched and throaty, and he clambers up.

She sits on the floor, only just illuminated by the light that comes in from the trap door. There’s no trace of ghostly horror on her face, just fatigue. When he approaches to sit next to her, she does her best to smile at him.

“Guess I didn’t do a great job of keeping it down.”

“Uhm,” he clears his throat, crouching to the ground. “No, you’re fine, I just couldn’t help hearing. I wanted to make sure everything was alright.”

“Oh, yeah,” she scoffs. “This is what I sound like when I’m laughing.” She looks away, a tight smile on her face, before it falls. “Sorry. I’m not great at, you know, talking about this stuff.”

“You? Not great at talking? There’s a first.”

“Shut up,” she glares at him from the corner of her eye.

“Kidding, of course. Anyways, am I really one to talk?”

“No. For all your stuffy vocabulary, you’re about as emotionally competent as the average teenage boy.” From anyone else, the insult might sting. But Zena tends towards bitterness when she’s perturbed - and anyways, he can’t deny her point.

“What’s on your mind?” he prods her again, hoping she’ll bite. She twists her hands, jaw clenching and unclenching, so he thinks she’s on the verge of speech a few times before she actually is.

“It’s stupid really, I’m overthinking things.” Her gaze is cast downward, she’s doing her best to keep her eyes from his. “I guess it just hit me that you’re not staying forever. I want you to finish your book, don’t get me wrong, but now you’ve almost finished your first draft and that’s what you came here for, and once you’re done you’ll leave, and I didn’t have to think about it before but now it feels so close, there’s a deadline in sight, and I just realized,” it sounds like glass is breaking in the back of her throat, her voice trembling and weak, “I don’t know what I’m going to do without you, Solas.” 

The words, “I’m not going anywhere,” pass his lips before he can think but she’s folded her hands over her face, body wracking with sobs. He wishes, more than anything, he could hold her, do something with his hands to make them useful. Instead he leans close and murmurs the most comforting (the least comforting) thing he can think to say: he loves her, he loves her, he loves her. She moves her palms down and looks up, eyes gleaming.

“You do?” She says, to which he nods in reply. She glows like she’s swallowed starlight, breaking into a smile that overcomes all the grief on her face. He can’t understand how her mood is so suddenly lifted until she says it back, and he feels like he can levitate, like he can soar, like the world is shining and beautiful and like nothing bad will ever happen again.

 

xxxx

 

After, everything changes, and everything stays the same. She still edits his novel, and he still reads stories to her. They still spend much of their time apart, too, and when they do he draws comfort knowing she’s just around the corner. But while their routine remains so similar, Solas can’t remember being happy in such a heavy, lasting way - so happy just to be where he is, when he is, that his heart occasionally swells for no reason whatsoever. He suspects Zena must feel much the same, because she’s more radiant than ever. But perhaps he’s just biased.

Since the night in the attic, she’s started sleeping in his bed - she jokes she’s the perfect person to sleep with, keeping the room cool, never hogging the covers. He doesn’t know what changes over the course of a night. But one morning, when he reaches out to touch her face, he feels her. Soft, solid, warm.

Frantically, his mind begs him not to wake her, in case the spell wears off. But she opens her eyes anyways, and when she doesn’t fade beneath his touch his fear subsides. Her face is blank, eyes bleary, before her gaze darts to his arm outstretched. Her laughter is like bells, and they fall together. At first he kisses her gently, so sure she’ll crumble away beneath his touch. When she doesn’t, a hunger he’s denied himself, to himself, always certain it was an impossibility, crashes over him. His mind moves hazy and fast, he soaks up the feeling of her body beneath his hands, but he wants more, so much more, can’t imagine doing anything but touching her for the rest of his life. Just as quickly as it came though, the feeling of her warmth slips away, and instead of her skin against his palms it feels like his hands are soaked in ice water. He scoots away, ever so slightly, and looks up to meet Zena’s gaze.

Her breaths come as short and fast as his own, and her expression mimics what he’s feeling - something between lust and agony. He sits up quickly, rubbing his forehead with his hand.

“Sorry. I just,” he turns away, speaking to the bedroom floor. “I need some time to think.” He stands and leaves the room, making his way to the kitchen. Zena doesn’t follow.

 

xxxx

 

His editor responds to the first draft. She loves it, she says it’s his best work yet, she wants him to meet her as soon as possible to discuss the revision. A week ago, his plan was: attend such meetings in the city, return to his home, to the woman he loves. 

Zena and he have been dodging each other since the incident. He isn’t sure what she has to say, if anything. He knows exactly what he’s got to say; it’s loomed over him since that morning, so he can hardly sleep or eat. He leaves the email from his editor open on his laptop, knowing she’ll read it, knowing confrontation will come without him having to start. 

Solid as he is, his steps cause the floor to groan, and there’s no way she wouldn’t have heard him come in the room. Still she doesn’t turn to face him, not until he greets her.

Her face is pale, illuminated in the glow of the laptop, and she offers a sickly smile. “I guess I should congratulate you.” 

“You shouldn’t have to. The book’s half yours, really,” he says softly.

“Yeah, maybe you can drop me a shoutout in the acknowledgments,” her tone is bitter. She slides into his desk chair, sitting sideways so she can still face him. Her gaze cuts - not angry, but cold and unyielding. He takes a seat on the couch and turns to her, so their knees nearly touch. It’s the closest they’ve been all week.

“We need to talk.”

“Yeah, no shit. You completely freaked out on me.”

“That’s regrettable. And I apologize. I just,” he takes a breath. “I needed time to clear my mind. Figure things out.”

She eyes him suspiciously before, as if defeated, she lets out a sigh, tension easing from her limbs. “You’re over it, aren’t you? You figured out how shitty the rest of your life would be, to waste it with a ghost, and now you want out.”

The light in the room has started to flicker. Zena pretends not to notice, and Solas certainly isn’t going to bring it up. Calmly as he can, he replies, “Don’t be ridiculous.” To which she guffaws. “I’d give anything to waste my life with you. But you must know that’s not the problem.”

“I don’t see any other problems.”

“No? Zena, whatever’s happening to you, it isn’t normal,” despite his best efforts, emotion leaks into his words, angry and red. “For a spirit to become solid for an extended period of time is unprecedented, and it happened to you while you were unconscious." 

“Like I said - doesn’t seem like a problem,” she returns his anger in spades, brow drawn tight, voice twice as loud, “Is it strange? Yes. But, and I don’t know if you’ve picked up on this, I’m a ghost. Weird things tend to happen.”

“Not like this,” Solas shakes his head. “You’re supposed to be drifting further from this world - not clinging on. Have you thought, seriously, about what it’ll take for you to cross over?”

“Of course I have. What the hell do you think I’ve spent my undead life doing, reading? My roommates haven’t always been such a joy to live with.” She shoots him a look that’s entirely disdainful.

“And in all those years, you haven’t come up with any theories?” he leans closer, hopes all frustration is gone from his face. “Because, even if I stay with you now, I’ll die eventually, too, and I don’t think I get to decide whether or not I stay around. One way or another you wind up stuck in this house, unless you figure out how to move on.”

The edges of her form have started to shudder, her expression turns desperate. Her voice distorts, stretches and wails through the old, empty home. “But I don’t want to go, not yet, there’s still so much I haven’t done. I haven’t seen everything or read everything or felt everything and I don’t want to leave you, Solas, I love you. Please don’t make me leave.”

It takes everything in him to not take it all back, to not tell her he loves her too, that he’ll stay with her forever. Instead he clenches his fists, chokes back his tears, perseveres. There will be time to feel sorry for himself later.

“I would do anything to bring you back. No force on the planet will do that. There’s something better for you out there, I'm sure of it, but there’s no way you’re going to move on if I’m still here.” Her form has started to steady, her wailing ceases. There are tears in her eyes but she looks like the woman he loves. “And you don’t need to do it now, or in a week, or a month. But I know you’re not going to pass over unless I leave.”

Her head falls back and she laughs, no humor in the sound. When she’s done, she says, “You’re right, of course, you’re right.” She wipes beneath her eyes, still grinning wildly. “You know, I don’t think anything’s hurt this much since I died,” she says, eyes tracing his face for the impact. The comment hits like a knife in the throat, but he does his best not to let it show.

“I don’t think anything’s hurt this much since I’ve lived,” he replies, which wipes the grin from her face.

“Maker. I’m so sorry.”

“I know. I’m sorry, too.”

 

xxxx

 

She doesn’t come down to say goodbye, but she must know he’s leaving. As he makes one last round, ensures he’s retrieved all his things, the walls tremble, and the doors slam. If she doesn’t want to see him right now, he’s not going to make her. He writes a simple note  
\- _Don’t forget me, please forget me._  
Perhaps one day they’ll meet again, in this life or another.

Physically, he leaves the way he came - two duffel bags, with a driver he speaks to in short, polite terms, the warmth of the car a welcome respite from the crisp air outside. Solas sits in the backseat, and the vehicle grumbles when backing out of the long gravel drive. There is another furnished house waiting for him somewhere far away. He leaves the place behind him, haunted, for better or for worse.


End file.
